


Out of the ashes of the capital

by SirBaldBear



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cross-Post, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24441592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirBaldBear/pseuds/SirBaldBear
Summary: In a explosion of green flames, King's Landing is no more. But the war is not yet over.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	1. The Lord of Barrow Hall

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted on Alternatehistory.com under the nickname 'PowerSombrero'

**The lord of Barrow Hall.**

Willam had never been a particularly religious man, content with spending more time in the training yard than in the godswood. Even then, when the northman continued to lead his outriders away from the green hell that had covered King’s Landing, he thanked the nameless gods of his ancestors for the steed Barbrey had gifted him. For any other beast may have run away scared and tossed him to be engulfed by the flames, plenty of his men had suffered such a fate.

It was madness, like a story out of one of the old tales, of demons and other creatures emerging from the night, as if the sky was lit anew, even if just for an instant, like it was day once again, a day with a green sun. He tried to ignore the screams, both from man and from beast as he hurried his mount, to get away from the blast, away from the city that had turned into ruins in the moments it took for it to appear in his field of view.

“What in hell was that!” Screamed Robard, one of his men at arms, once they were far away enough from the inferno of a city to talk. With him were other 30 or so riders, part of his outriders. Willam let out a silent prayer that most of the rest were simply lost, and not dead.

“Just be glad you weren’t caught by the flames… Robard, Wilhelm, take 10 mean each and run east and west, look for any of our men that made it out of that mess but got separated from the main group. Report to me at dawn, and be careful.” He wasn’t going to give up on any of his men, but he had a duty. The moment his orders were sent to the rest, the dozen of men that didn’t go with the search parties were quick to follow him as he started riding towards the northern army.

It took almost half an hour for the banners to become visible, it seemed the news had already reached the camp, for there was obvious movement around the campfires. He left his steed with his men, and started half walking, half running, towards the main tent. He didn’t even bother announcing himself, for he knew Ned wouldn’t be asleep at a moment like this. The guards let him pass, and that was just more indication that the camp knew at least in part about what was going on.

“Willam! Thank the gods. When we heard that infernal explosion we feared the worst.” Eddard was a grim man in appearance, but Willam, like anyone that had taken time to know him, knew Ned was at his heart a good man. Which made the burden tossed onto his shoulder by the mad dragon even crueler.

After that, his eyes darted around the room, from tall, broad Jon Umber, who was the loudest at proclaiming that he was happy to see him, to Lord Karstark, who was more focused on the map stretched over the table, not that he held it against him. Their fathers had a small feud over the years, and while he and Rickard didn’t continue it, there was no friendship between the axes and the sun. Finally, his eyes settled on his goodbrother, Lord Bolton, who gave him a silent nod. Creepy man that, but he was family, if only by marriage. Once the ruckus caused by his arrival died down, he took his place on the table, between a Flint and a Burley whose names he didn’t know. Ned looked at him, but didn’t say anything, and Willam felt all the eyes on the tent drift to him.

“So… is it true?” Finally asked the Greatjon, breaking the silence with his usual bluntness. “Did the dragons burn their own city to the ground?”

“I don’t know if it was the dragons, the lannisters or their seven hells popping to earth, all I know is that King’s Landing is gone. From the keep to the outer walls, I’d be surprised if there’s any building left in”

“Southern madness…” Stated Lord Cerwyn, causing some sounds of agreement from the other lords.

“Any of ours down, Willem?” Asked Ned, his tone full of worry and what could only be guilt. He had insisted we needed to know what was going on in the city.

“We were close enough that the blast scared some horses, and the fire engulfed a few. We were lucky, all things considered, for if we’ve been even half a minute earlier, none of us would have made it out. I sent some of my men to look for survivors, but I don’t expect they’ll find much.”

“So is that why you aren’t facing us, Willam? Trying to hide your scorched behind?” The attempt at a joke, he didn’t even see who said it, started a laugh across the table, but it didn’t reach anyone’s eyes, it was an attempt to break the silence, and with it, the sudden realization of just how many lives had been lost that day.

“I’m not gonna mourn for the dragons… or the lions, but damn…” Karstark spoke what they were all thinking, and a cold atmosphere took over the entire war council.

“One way or another… the war is over.” Finally proclaimed Ned, and every man in the room turned to face their Lord Paramount. “Willam, once you know of any survivors, tell me, we’ll need to know exactly what happened. Jon, Rickard prepare your men to move into the area, we have to secure what was king’s landing for when the King and the rest of his men reach us. Lord Bolton, if you will, send a rider to inform Lord Arryn of this before they get here. He and my father in law will want to know this.” Ned wasn’t raised to be a lord, and it showed in all the little ways he hesitated, in how he called some by name, others by title, but still, no one argued. More orders were issued, preparations both to keep moving, and to deal with the flowers if they decided to show up.

With his orders, the Lord of Barrow Hall bowed his head and walked out of the tent, going towards the area his men had set up. He would have to make sure to look after the horse his wife had given him, that animal had saved his life, and we would make sure she knew it the next time they saw each other. For a moment, he wondered how soon that would be, for after being so close to the fires of hell, he wanted nothing more than to go back north. They’d clean up on the ruins of the capital, and then he’d be on his way back north. They all were going to.


	2. The Wasted Victor

**The Wasted Victor.**

  
As he replayed every step that took them to this situation, Randyll couldn’t help but damn them all. Damn the disloyal, traitors, from the north to the stormlands, and the puppetmaster in the Vale. ‘High as Honour’ high as his boots, if he gets a say. Still, not all the blame could be placed on those that didn’t keep faith with the king. No, quite a bit of the blame laid in the sheer incompetence of some of the loyal lords, those that obviously had more honour than brains, displayed, chief among them his own liege lord. Damn him, and those that like him, lacked the backbone to do what had to be done. Randyll had the rebels on the palm of his hand, he asked, not twice but thrice, to be allowed to grab the cavalry and give chase, and all three times he was told the troops were better off trying to match Lord Tyrel in girth by feasting in front of the walls of Storm’s End. Even when word arrived that the prince was gathering his men to face the rebels, his liege lord refused to give him the men to go and take part in the battle, and thus, the wielder of Heartsbane found himself sitting on his ass as the news arrived, first of the defeat of Connington, then of their own prince in the battle of the Trident. Disloyalty, Incompetence, and sheer bad luck. Damn them all to the Seven Hells.  
  
“As long as the capital holds, and we take the castle, the war can still easily be won. After all, more than half of the rebels are northern barbarians” Stated some pansy lord something or other, and Randyll wondered whose ass he had kissed to get a place on the war council.  
  
“I still say we should offer some more lenient terms, if only for any children still in the castle.” Said for the nth time the green Fossoway, and of course, the moment he was done talking, the red apple had to butt in.  
  
“Children traitors are still traitors.” Roared Ser Fossoway, heir to Cinder Hall, if he remembered correctly. Some people seemed to agree with him, and even Randyll found himself grunting in agreement. He had no love for any Baratheon.  
  
“My lords, my lords” Mace’s voice tried to create some calm in the council, and despite lacking even an ounce of respect for the ball of a man, he was his liege and thus, Randyll listened. “We will take the castle soon enough, and then we’ll march to shatter the rebels once and for all. I’ve sent word to Highgarden to gather some extra cavalry for that very reason.” Randyll wanted to toss his goblet across the table. More cavalry .The cavalry they had already outnumbered the rebels with only the knights and squires, not to mention all the other horses every lord brought.  
  
Still boiling in his own rage, the Lord of Horn Hill, the Sole Victor, as some of his men called him, moved his eyes back to the map of the seven kingdoms. After the victory on the trident, it wouldn’t take long for the rebels to reach and siege King’s Landing. It had been more than a week, he wouldn’t be surprised if the gates weren’t under attack already, and yet here they were, talking nonsense and watching their Liege insist that they couldn’t continue without waiting for Redwyne. Like that man knew anything of war on land. He would never dismiss Paxter’s prowess on the waves, but this wasn’t a war that was going to be won by sails.  
  
So the conversation continued without reason for almost an hour, enough time for Mace to eat enough food to feed three men at arms properly during a feast. Still, as Randyll took another sip of his watered wine, Paxter finally made his way into the tent, hurriedly, and ignoring all signs of courtesy, instantly went to Mace, whispering things to his ear. Of course, as the colour drained from the fat flower’s face, his curiosity grew.  
  
“Are you absolutely sure?” Asked Mace, and the horror in his voice was evident. Great, that probably meant that King’s Landing had fallen. And they were still stuck here.  
  
“No doubt. I triple checked before coming here. A ship that had been sailing out of the capital rushed here to bring me this information. It’s gone Mace.” Well, that was an odd way to phrase it.  
  
“So the city has fallen?” Finally he decided to just ask the question everyone else in the room seemed to be too much of a coward to ask.  
  
“N… not exactly.” Said Mace with a trembling voice, before collapsing on his chair. “Paxter ju… just tell them. There’s no point in beating around the bush.”  
  
“Very well… it would seem, that King’s Landing has been completely destroyed by fire. Green fire, to be exact.” Redwyne gulped. “Wildfire. It’s gone. The entire city is just… gone. And so are the Lannisters, since the last word we got was that the king let them in. It seemed albeit late, that Lord Tywin remembered his vows, but he and his army paid the price. Most of the power of the westerlands burned too”  
  
The moment those words left Lord Redwyne’s mouth, the council exploded into screaming. Disbelief, horror, and a thousand other things were spewed in the lapse of a few seconds. All the while, Randyll couldn’t help but down his watered wine, for the first time in countless years wishing he had something harder at hand. This was… terrible. Oh the loss of the city and the smallfolk was a tragedy of course, and he was sure women would cry about it for years to come, but when it came to the war it was even worse. With this, more and more spineless cowards would turn to the rebels, particularly in the Crownlands. And with Rhaegar dead, their king was now a young boy stuck in Dragonstone. The wielder of Heartsbane let his mind race. If Paxter rushed, they may be able to pick the young king and foster him in Highgarden while they deal with the rebels. The fact that the Westerlands seemed to have made their move just to be obliterated for it. At least they didn’t have to worry about their northern frontier for the moment. When it came to inside their frontiers, however, they’d spend the whole time squashing little rebellions from the faithless that would use this as an excuse to leave the righteous side of the war. He could already see some of the men around this very table, their weak spines about to shatter under the pressure of one little accident. But not him, never him. And since it seemed that the news had finally snapped their liege, Randyll smashed his goblet against the table and roared “SILENCE!” In a tone that left no room for arguments.  
  
“Now. While this is bad, we must act quickly and decisively. With your leave, my liege, I think Redwyne should rush towards Dragonstone and recover the king and the mother queen. They’ll be safer in the Reach” He eyed Mace fiercely, and so did most of the table after he talked, albeit their looks were more curious than anything else.  
  
“O… of course. The king. Viserys is king now” Mace, once more, managed to sound dumb even when he was correct. “An… any other ideas, Randyll?”  
  
Finally, the fat idiot seemed to have seen reason. “There will be… certain traitors that will take this as an excuse to turn their coats Mace. I should take the heavy horse and make sure the king’s peace is maintained. Meanwhile, you and a part of the foot can remain here and continue the siege” And not get in the way, although that part went unsaid. “ The rest of the infantry, the archers and the light horse should move to a more defensible position to prepare in case the rebels try to catch us unprepared.”  
  
“R… right, right. Paxter should leave enough ships to keep the blockade and then… then…”  
  
“Then move the rest to first secure the king, and then prepare in case the Greyjoy try something. Correct my liege.” Oh he knew he was overstepping his boundaries, but his look, the way he held Heartsbane, and his tone were more than enough to silence any lord that would doubt him. He took mental note of those that were most likely to turn after this, particularly the more pious lords. Useless, the bunch of them. “Make no mistake my lords. The war just got a lot harder, but I promise you. I will see the Dragon victorious. I will see the rebels dead. On Heartsbane, I swear.”  
  
He was not going to let anyone, not even the seven gods themselves, to take his victory from him. He’d write his name in all the history books. Randyll the Kingmaker. He would not let his victory at Ashford be wasted.


	3. The Rebellion's Cornerstone

**The Rebellion’s Cornerstone.**

The Baratheon stag flew high on the sky, over Aegon’s hill. This should have been their triumphant moment, and yet like the entire damn city, their victory had turned into ash in their mouths. Hoster’s eyes focused on the three flags that flew right under that of their king, the direwolf, the falcon and between those two, the trout. His trout. His symbol, that held the other two together by blood and marriage now. And yet he had nothing to show for it. Oh true, his grandson will be Lord of Winterfell, one day, and gods willing Lysa… well, he didn’t want to think about that right now. But what else? No treasure, no because the damn green fire had melted the treasury along with the swords and armors of the defenders. It would take years for a proper mining operation to salvage the gold and silver of the dragon treasury. No Glory, for bar his brother netting some captures, his house’s performance in the war had been marked not by what they did, but by what they, as lord paramounts, didn’t have. The loyalty of their people. Oh sure, the Vale and the Stormlands had infighting too, but of his vassals, even those that decided to follow him, most didn’t commit their entire force. Least of all the Freys. Damn Walder.

Still, as he moved between knights and lords, his mind racing, he thought that the fire had been a blessing in one way. After the flames had died down, they started to find the corpses of westermen as often as they did crownlanders. That could only mean that Tywin had decided to side with Aerys, and who knew if they’d been able to stand against the fresh Westerlands as the war progressed. The fact that they found westerlander weapons, armors and sigils all around the area that used to be the outer city told them all they needed to know. The Lion had been willing to die fighting with the Dragon and well… they paid the price dearly for it. Now the west was a mess, lords and heirs dead left, right and centre, and a dwarf, not only a dwarf, but a child dwarf left as lord of the Rock. Come what may come from the Reach, at least they’d find no help from Casterly Rock.

The news from the Reach itself was… while not the best, for a total surrender would have been ideal, at least the dissent was growing. From what Jon’s and his own spies told, Mace Tyrell had fallen into a deep depression since Aerys’ Folly, and Randyll Tarly lead the Dragon’s loyalists, having to rush from one part of the Reach to the other to quell every little rebellion before the entire kingdom caught fire. That bought them time, even if a sizable army under the Targaryen standard maintained their position on the Rose Road, blocking any attempt to lift the siege of Storm’s End. Ned had taken his men, along with most of the cavalry from the other kingdoms to try and break them while Randyll was away. He just hoped that Stannis would hold. With King’s Landing gone, they’d need the status symbol that was Storm’s End, at least till a new capital could be established.

With that in mind, Hoster finally reached his horse, bred from the Whent warhorse his wife had given him as a wedding gift. He moved his hands over the animal’s neck before mounting it, starting the slow, careful descent from the makeshift camp over the hill, towards the similarly sized camp on Visenya’s Hill, where Jon Arryn had set up camp, mainly to have all the maesters they had at hand treat the highborn wounded, chief among them their King. While the burning of the city had a lot of side effects, the loss of the medicine and the expertise from the Grand Maester may prove fatal for some of their most critical wounded. While the nearby towns had maesters of their own, getting houses Rykker and Rosby to give them up had proven to be a complicated political manner. House Rykker had been wiped on the main line on the explosion, and the cousin that styled himself as new lord of the Dun Fort wanted to have his lands and titles confirmed before giving any help. A similar situation meant that the Rosby’s were hesitant to help. Oh, the Crownlands houses held no love for the Targaryens, not anymore. But both cities were aware that since they had been on the wrong side of the war, and the destruction of the capital, Robert was more than likely going to take either of the towns, or maybe both of them, as his own personal fief. This meant the king, at least for now, had to do with a war healer and whatever medicine they could scrounge for the small villages around the area.

“Hoster.” Jon’s voice sounded tired, oh so tired, and the Lord of Riverrun couldn’t help but feel a sting of pity from his now son-in-law. As he dismounted, he reached for the man, giving him a single reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Glad you are here. We have news to discuss.”

That at least, was good to hear. His family had bled as much as any other on this war, and it was his daughters that held the alliance together. He deserved to have a say. “What is it. Have either Rosby or Rykker accepted our terms?”

“I fear not,” Said Lord Arryn with a sigh. “They keep asking for their titles to be confirmed before even opening the doors. I’m afraid we may have to siege them down sooner, rather than later.”

“We don’t have the men to siege either town. While your foot and mine remained behind, we have what? Twelve thousand men at the most between the both of us? And another three from the stormlands. We’d have to raise more men and…”

“And we lack the resources to do so without the royal treasury, that’s years away from being mined out. Yes. I know. And that’s why I’ve been in talks with the houses of Gulltown to raise some money as a… gift, to the new monarch”

“House Grafton looking to secure their lands too, I imagine?” Said Hoster, as the two men walked around the edge of the camps, around what once had been one of the most beautiful septs in the land.

“I wish it was the Graftons” Said Jon, rubbing his forehead for a moment before talking. “My… distant cousin has managed to get quite a bit of coin together, mostly from his own ventures and the vaults of House Arryn of Gulltown.”

And now Jon’s hesitation made sense. While replacing the Graftons as top house in Gulltown was not out of the question, the tensions between the more noble and the more wealthy branches of house Arryn were known all over the continent. If the Arryns of Gulltown became lords on their own right well, that would certainly sting Jon’s pride. “We… don’t have much of a choice” He said, tentatively.

“I am well aware of that Hoster.” The irritation in Jon’s voice was more than evident. “I guess we all must make sacrifices. Robert formally named me Hand the last time he was conscious. So at least we don’t have to wait for him to wake up. I’ll just need your signature and that of a third lord, to make it official. Maybe… Frey?”

Ah, and there it was. Just like Jon’s pride had to take a hit for the future of the new dynasty, it seems his own pride would have to take a hit too. Asking Walder Frey to be the third signature would establish him in the eyes of the other lords as a powerful player in the new circle of trust around the monarch, but they certainly couldn’t risk asking someone else and having the Lord of the Twins feel insulted. As much as he wanted to tear that damn bridge to the ground, they needed him.

“So, the Arryn branch become lords of Gulltown, house Grafton has their assets confiscated by the crown, and we send word to raise some extra man, that the new lord of gulltown is happily gonna pay for?” Asked Hoster, just to bounce the details off Jon. “The other lords are not gonna like that. Not if we are also planning on taking Duskendale and Rosby for Robert’s seat”

They were both aware that Robert’s reign was on thin ice, even if they managed to capture dragonstone before Viserys and his mother were taken to Highgarden. While their alliance held four kingdoms tightly together, and the west was too much of a mess to try and look for independence, they both knew that Dorne and The Iron Islands were going to rebel. It was just a question of when. With that in mind, securing the loyalty of the lords was just as important as securing a new capital, and a good port. Trade would be the main income of the new dynasty for a while, with so many dead and the two foodbaskets of the kingdom in the centre of the conflicts past and future.

“We’ll have to be… careful. The crownlands may not be Targaryen loyalists anymore, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be loyal to Robert’s line. Your grandchildren, gods be willing, will maintain the North, the Riverlands and the Vale firmly tied, and the Stormlands will follow Robert and Stannis’ heirs. They’ve proven themselves.” Hoster knew what he meant by ‘gods be willing’. Lysa, oh Lysa.

“We are going to have to tie Robert or his heirs to the west or the reach, sooner rather than later, if we want to maintain the kingdom united.” Jon raised an eyebrow at him, as they reached the bottom of the hill, stopping to face him.

“Ned’s sister…” He started

“Is who knows where, probably with a bastard in her belly, and his brother can’t go rescue her before dealing with the Reach.” Hoster countered.

“Robert has his mind set. Nothing short of the girl being dead will dissuade him” Jon sighed. “That’s a bridge we’ll have to cross when the king is better, Hoster.” Jon’s tone was final, and for once in his life, Hoster decided not to push it. After all, it wasn’t like he could profit from this situation in any way. Better let it go.  
As both men kept walking, small discussions began and were shut down. The future of Castle Darry and some other Targaryen Loyalist nobles in the riverlands, they agreed, would have to wait till the Crownlands were properly pacified. The fleet from the Vale, along with that of White Harbor were absolutely no match for the Royal fleet, and even with the whispers of the Velaryon’s breaking from it, even that wouldn’t be enough to tip the scales. House Velaryon was far removed from the peak of its naval power. And that was only the narrow sea houses, the Redwyne fleet on it’s own could destroy them on the sea.

As Jon started going on about who they could name to Robert’s kingsguard, a small glint under the ashes caught Hoster’s eye. He leaned down to check what it was, and he felt a small tug at his heartstrings as he held it in his hand. Oh, the metal was half melted in place, and it was obvious by the colours around it that it had been inside a box, but it was still clear as day that this was a baby’s toy. And like something had broken the walls inside his mind, he remembered Lysa’s baby. His grandchild, and what he had done. Oh gods forgive him, he had to tell Jon. They may… they may be able to find her some help. Jon had stopped, and was looking at him curiously.

“Jon. There’s… there’s something we have to tal…”

“MY LORDS!” The voice of a Stormlander knight interrupted him, as the man rode towards them, carrying Hoster’s horse and another beast with him. The look on his face… the look on his face sent a shiver down his spine. “You have to come with me. It’s… it’s the king. The healer says his fever just spiked… and that he may not see the next day”


End file.
